Five Times Sam and Dean Cuddled
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Five different scenarios in which Sam and Dean cuddle, after they retire to Wyoming together. Part of my Wyoming!verse. Sam and Dean are nonromantic/nonsexual life partners. Aromantic!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Because this is a work in progress, I'm posting each section as an individual chapter. Maybe that'll motivate me to finish the fic faster.

This is part of my Wyoming!verse. Each scene/chapter takes place at a different point in time during Sam and Dean's retirement to Wyoming. They're in a nonromantic/nonsexual (queerplatonic?) primary partnership with each other, as you know if you've read the other stories in the 'verse.

* * *

I.

* * *

Dean peeks into Sam's room and finds his brother lying in bed with his back to the door. It's only six o'clock in the evening on a Wednesday. They got home from work around half past four. Sam was quiet in the car and disappeared into his room not long after arriving. Dean wondered if Sam had a crappy shift at the hardware store but decided not to ask. Sometimes, a man just needs space to decompress.

But Dean wants to know what to make for dinner.

"Sam? You asleep?" he says.

"Mmmm," says Sam. "What do you want, Dean?"

"Nothing. Just, deciding what to cook later. You sure you're okay?"

Sam's quiet for a moment. "I've got a headache. It's not a big deal."

Dean takes a few steps into the room, uncertain whether to offer Sam comfort or leave him alone. "Do you want anything? Water? Some Advil?"

"I took one already," Sam says. "And I'm not thirsty."

Dean lingers where he stands, unsure what to do. He wants to help, but he doesn't want to irritate his brother. Maybe if he lays a damp towel over Sam's brow or on his neck, it'll soothe him.

"Get over here."

"What?" says Dean.

Sam stretches his arm out behind him, toward Dean.

Dean only hesitates for a moment, before crossing the room to Sam's bedside. He looks down at his brother, unsure what Sam wants, and Sam curls his hand into Dean's shirt and tugs. Dean toes off his shoes, and Sam scoots further in on the bed, leaving room for him. Dean lies down behind Sam, careful not to jostle his brother too much. He rests his head on the pillow and curls his body around Sam's, wrapping his arm over Sam's waist.

Dean's nose is an inch from Sam's long hair, and he can smell the shampoo Sam uses. Sam's hulking frame is all hard muscle and soft t-shirt, running hot, and the nearness of him comforts Dean in the most primal, visceral way. But Dean's sixth sense—the one tuned to Sam's body, mind, heart, and soul—twitches with the knowledge that his brother is in pain. He wants to make Sam feel better, and as much as he understands that cuddling feels good, it's not going to cure a headache.

"Sam," he says. "You sure you don't want me to get you another Advil? Maybe some ice'll help."

"Dean," says Sam, his voice low and deep. "I'll be fine. Just stay with me. 's all I want."

Dean pauses. "Okay."

They're quiet for a few minutes.

"How bad is it?" Dean asks.

"A four," says Sam.

Another long pause.

"Something happen?" says Dean.

Sam doesn't suffer from headaches often, but when he does, it's usually because of an emotional trigger. Stress, anger, sadness, frustration. It makes Dean nervous, more often than not; he's afraid the headaches are some long-term side effect of Sam's mental wall being torn down after he came back from Hell and got his soul back. He's afraid that Sam's hit his head and passed out too many times, and there's something seriously wrong with him. Dean took Sam to the clinic last year to have him examined and tested, much to Sam's amusement and annoyance, but the doctor assured them that Sam was in good health.

"No," Sam says. "It's just a headache."

Dean decides not to press Sam about it.

Sam grabs the other pillow on the bed and hugs it to his chest, trapping Dean's hand between the pillow and Sam's upper abdomen. Dean's presses his cheek to the back of Sam's shoulder and closes his eyes, trying to relax and zone out the way he often does when he and his brother cuddle. It happens when he cuddles with Cas, too. It's the same type of zoning out that kicks in whenever Dean has sex, except without the heightened senses and the tingling, sensitive skin. His brain shuts down, and he goes to this warm, peaceful space in his body.

When he's with his brother, his awareness narrows down to the weight and heat and size and shape of Sam's body next to his, the smell of Sam's skin that hasn't changed since he was a baby, Sam's breathing and Sam's pulse. It calms Dean so deeply that it puts him to sleep if he and Sam cuddle long enough. All of Dean's emotional and psychological baggage temporarily disappears. Everything's okay.

When he opens his eyes again, he realizes that he dozed off. Sam's breathing slow and shallow against his chest. Dean's pretty sure he's asleep, which means the headache must be fading out.

Dean decides to stay with Sam, until Sam stirs.

They can order take-out for dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: These chapters are not in chronological order, although they all take place during Wyoming retirement.

* * *

Chapter 2

* * *

The PTSD hit Dean within the first three months living in Wyoming, and it took him two years of medication, therapy, and stunning amounts of love and patience from Sam and Castiel, to finally experience a significant decrease in symptoms. The flashbacks, the nightmares, the panic attacks, the anger and irritability, the erratic sleep patterns became so occasional, that Dean was pretty much back to his old self. Sam could see glimpses of the young man that Dean once was, when Dad was still alive, before Dean went to Hell. He knew that Dean would need more time to completely recover and may have to do emotional and psychological maintenance long-term, but it seemed like they were finally out of the woods, past the worst of the illness.

Then, the depression hit.

* * *

Sam comes home from his afternoon shift at the hardware store later than usual. The Impala's parked in front of the big house Sam and Dean share, gleaming in the sunshine. It's just after four o'clock, and Dean should be at the garage until five. But Sam drove past Lou's on his way out of town and found out that Lou had let Dean off for the day around three because business was slow.

"Dean," Sam calls out as soon as he's inside, wiping his shoes on the mat. "You here?"

No answer.

Sam starts to walk down the corridor splitting the house front to back, glancing into the living room as he passes by. Maybe Dean's next door with Cas or walking on their property.

He sees Dean's boots outside his brother's room, the right boot tipped on its side. He doesn't know why, but the sight of them fills him with uneasiness. Dean's bedroom door is almost shut, and Sam pushes it open cautiously.

The older Winchester is lying on the bed, facing the window in the wall to the right of the entrance. He's on top of the blanket and sheets, not under them, still dressed in jeans, socks, and his gray thermal t-shirt. The curtains are drawn open, bluish gray light filtering through the window and softening the edges of everything in the room.

Sam looks in at Dean and thinks for a moment that he might be asleep—but he sees a twitch in Dean's body and realizes something's wrong.

"Dean?" he says, voice quiet and careful.

The other man doesn't answer, so Sam steps inside and stands at the foot of the bed to look at him. Dean's eyes are open, and he's crying, tears snaking down his cheeks slow and lazy. He's absolutely silent and still. Sam briefly wonders if maybe Dean doesn't realize he's crying.

"Dean," Sam says, doing his best to sound calm. "What's wrong?"

The older Winchester lowers his gaze and wipes at his face with the back of his hand, sniffling just a little. "Nothing," he says, voice raspy.

Sam has to try hard not to roll his eyes. Dean's been pretending that he's okay when he's anything but, for so long, that sometimes Sam wants to quit asking how he is and just get on with helping him. "Did something happen at work?"

Dean swallows and looks in the general direction of the window again. "No," he says. "Nothing happened. Really."

Sam pauses as he starts to remember that Dean's been moody a lot over the last couple weeks. It's been inconsistent: sometimes, he's fine, and sometimes, he's withdrawn and sad. Most people wouldn't notice the difference because Dean's good at acting like he's all right, but Sam can feel it when his brother's off. The energy in the house, the energy between them, changes. When Dean goes straight for the whiskey before dinner and skips the beer, he's upset about something. When he sits in his rocking chair on the porch with a drink for a long time in the evenings and just watches the landscape surrounding their property, he's preoccupied with something sad or wistful, dredging up bad memories. When he loses his appetite or can't sleep, something's bothering him.

Sam's noticed a little bit of everything in the last two weeks or so, but he didn't take it seriously because nothing's changed about their lives. Everything's fine. And it's normal to have off days.

But Dean crying isn't normal.

"Sam, I'm serious," Dean says, his voice low and tired. "Nothing happened. Nothing's wrong. I'm just—I need some time. Okay?"

Sam goes around to the left side of the bed and sits next to Dean, his back to the door. Dean's facing away from him. Sam thinks, then says, "Maybe nothing happened, but you're obviously upset. I guess you don't have to tell me why if you don't want to, but... Let me help you, if I can."

Dean breathes out and closes his eyes.

Sam lifts up his hand tentatively and cups it around the front of Dean's shoulder. Neither of them speaks for a minute, until Sam feels Dean shaking against him.

"It's me, Sam," Dean says, his voice broken. "Something's wrong with me. I feel like crap, and I can't shake it. I don't know why. Okay? I was good, and all of a sudden, it's like I can't—I can't get up."

Sam immediately thinks of Dean's medication regimen. He was on an anti-anxiety drug and something else to help with his nightmares until he was stable enough that he got his doctor's clearance to gradually wean himself off the pills. He's been med-free for a few months now, and so far, none of his PTSD symptoms have popped back up. Maybe this depression thing is new. Maybe it's the next stage of Dean working through all the stuff he lived through in the past.

Sam's going to have to talk to him about going back to the doctor and considering an anti-depressant, but right now, his brother needs him to be supportive.

"I thought I was cured," Dean whispers. "Maybe I should move out until I get my shit together."

Sam almost physically flinches. "Hey," he says, his voice firm and a little louder. "Stop it. You're not going anywhere. Whatever this is, we're going to get you through it. Together."

"I won't make you live with that person I was. I do that, and you'll be the one who leaves."

Sam looks away from his brother and shuts his eyes. His heart stings in his chest. He's torn between anger and guilt because he would never leave Dean for being weak, but he's abandoned his brother before.

"You waited so long for this life," Dean says, voice thin and pained. "I don't want to ruin it."

Sam curls his fingers into Dean's shoulder, opens his eyes, and shakes his head. "God damn it, Dean," he says softly. "You're not leaving. This is your home. Let's just take this one day at a time. Okay?"

Dean doesn't answer.

Sam looks over at him but can't see Dean's face. He only contemplates it for a moment before he lets go of Dean's shoulder, leans down to untie his boot laces and take off his shoes, and lies down on the bed behind his brother.

Sam wraps his arm around Dean's waist and pulls him snug against his chest, feels the way Dean's whole body tenses before completely relaxing, and touches his brow to the back of Dean's head. They lie there for a couple minutes, Sam's eyes closed and Dean's scent in his nose, before Dean finally starts to quake the way he does when he's holding in a sob.

Sam wants to tell him, _Cry. Go ahead and cry. It's just us here. _

But he doesn't speak, knowing that Dean's started now and can't stop. Soon, Dean gasps and gulps for air, the sound wet and not quite a sob.

Sam just holds onto him and listens. He's got his own surreal history of trauma, wounds, and suffering. No one understands where Dean's been or where he is right now better than Sam. And Sam's been on the inside of madness before. He's come out of it—nothing short of a miracle—so he can believe that Dean will be healed. Maybe that's why it had to be. Sam's Hell, his insanity, his agony. Maybe he chose to bear his own cross so that he could stay this close to his brother.

"I love you," Sam whispers. "I've got you, Dean."

Dean rolls over to face Sam, buries his face in Sam's neck and the slope of Sam's shoulder, and Sam drapes his arm around him again, big hand flat against Dean's back. Sam's consciousness is full of this: their body heat, the dampness of Dean's skin, the salty smell of his tears.

"Hey," Sam says, quiet. "I've got you."

He starts to stroke Dean's back and thinks about how much he'd rather have this hurt brother to nurse every day for however long it takes, than no brother at all.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Leah is an OFC from previous stories in the Wyoming!verse. Basically, she's a good friend of Sam's, they have sex on occasion, but they're not a full-blown romantic couple. She's super supportive of Dean and Sam's partnership/the Winchester Family of 3.

* * *

Chapter 3

* * *

He's walking through the house—his and Dean's house in Wyoming—but it's empty of furniture and decoration and the Winchesters' personal possessions. The windows are open, curtains floating out of them like the empty dresses of dead women. He calls out for his brother but no one answers. He calls out for Castiel, but the angel doesn't appear. As he approaches the front of the house, he notices the front door flung wide open, the jamb framing a blonde woman sitting at the top of the porch steps with her back to Sam.

"Leah?" he says to her, as he reaches the doorway.

She looks over her shoulder at him—but it isn't Leah.

Sam's breath catches in his chest and he freezes. "Jessica."

She smiles at him and turns around again to face the landscape sprawling before the house.

Sam hesitates, then musters up the courage to step outside and join her. He sits down next to her and stares, not knowing how to feel. She looks exactly the same as she did when he last saw in their Palo Alto apartment, twenty-two years old and too pretty to live. She's wearing a floral skirt, button down blouse, and her worn out pair of blue Converse. She looks peaceful, like she could sit here on Sam's porch forever in perfect contentment.

"What are you doing here?" Sam says.

"Someone had to come get you," says Jess. "You deserve to know the truth, Sam."

He shakes his head a little, frowning. "What truth?"

Jess looks at him, her eyes gentle, reaches out and lays her hand on his knee. "It's not real. You've been making it all up because you don't want to live without him."

"What are you talking about?"

"This house in Wyoming. This whole life you think you have. It's a dream, Sam. Everything since Dean's death has been a dream." She squeezes his knee just a little. "He's in Hell, Sam. He never got out. And you couldn't live with that."

Sam just looks at her, brow furrowed, the warm weight of her hand familiar and unfamiliar, the emptiness of the house behind them like a fire burning a hole through his heart.

The whole world is silent, as if he and Jess are the only two people in it.

She takes her hand away and looks forward again.

"No," he says. "That's not possible."

The corner of her mouth barely curls, a wistful suggestion of a smile.

He couldn't have been asleep the last twenty years. The almost-Apocalypse, Lucifer possessing him, his time in the Cage, Leviathans, Bobby's death, the three trials, Castiel, Kevin, Charlie, Amelia, the Bunker, the Men of Letters... They must've been real.

Dean. All this time.

Sam twists around and looks back into the house—still empty, the long corridor reaching deeper than he remembers. He looks into the front lot again and realizes the Impala's missing.

"I'm sorry," Jess says. "You were going to figure it out eventually. I didn't want you to be alone when you did."

Sam's heart starts beating too fast. He's shaking his head and leaning away from her, mind racing. If his life isn't real, what is?

He's about to bolt, about to start screaming for Dean, but Jess reaches up and presses her hand to his neck, fingers slipping into his hair, and kisses him. He can taste her strawberry lip balm, smell her floral perfume and the sea in her hair.

For a split second, he's a college kid again, his whole life ahead of him. He's going to ask her to marry him. He's going to leave his past behind. He's going to live a happy, normal life. He's going to stay innocent.

She pulls away from him.

Disappears.

Leaves him alone.

* * *

Sam wakes up in the dark, breathless. He's in his room at home—in the house he shares with his brother, twenty-five minutes outside of Big Piney, WY. He turns on his night table lamp and looks around the room. Everything's exactly as he left it when he fell asleep. He turns the digital alarm clock toward him: four twenty-seven AM.

Sam only lies there in his bed for about thirty seconds before deciding that no, he can't just roll over and go back to sleep. He throws back the sheet, comforter, and blanket, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and slides his feet into his slippers.

The house is pitch dark except the milky light of stars and moon sneaking through the windows. Silent. Warm. Sam touches the walls to test their solidity, feels the floor solid under his feet, sees the door to his brother's room across the corridor cracked open and almost doesn't want to see to the other side, in case Jess was right.

Sam pushes the door open and stands in the doorway, looking at Dean's silhouette in the bed. A minute or two passes, and before he can turn around and go back to his room, Dean stirs with that sixth sense they both have about each other, after decades of sharing motel rooms. He sits up and says, "Sam? What is it?"

Tears rush into Sam's eyes at the sound of Dean's groggy, rough voice. He feels stupid for being so afraid, for getting this emotional, all because of a stupid dream. He's had enough nightmares in his life that he should be used to them. He should be able to shake them off, and most of the time, he can.

"Nothing," he says, the sound of his own voice weak and strange. "Sorry."

He starts to turn around and shut the door with him.

"Hey," says Dean, a little more alert. "C'mere."

Sam pauses and hesitates, just staring into the darkness of Dean's room with his hand on the door knob. "I was just checking on you, that's all," he says. "I'm going back to sleep."

"Dude. Don't make me chase you."

Sam doesn't actually want to go back to his room, so he caves without any more fuss, sitting on the empty side of Dean's bed as his brother moves over to make room for him.

"Bad dream?" Dean says, after a moment.

Once in a while, Sam wishes they didn't have intimate knowledge of each other, borderline telepathic connection, whatever internal tuning fork that endows them with the ability to just _know_ what's going on with each other all the damn time. But it's not often, not since they retired here and learned to just give in to their relationship. Sam's come to appreciate the fact that there's not a whole lot of guess work between him and Dean, regardless if it means that most of their feelings, thoughts, needs, and desires aren't private even when they're unvoiced.

Dean sighs behind him, a sound of resignation. _If you don't want to tell me the details, fine. _

Sam's embarrassed he had the dream at all, doubly embarrassed that it's this disturbing to him. He'd rather have a flashback to Hell.

Dean taps Sam's side with the back of his hand. _If you're going to get in, get in. _

Sam lies down under the covers and waits for Dean to speak or roll over away from him. Instead, Dean stretches out his arm toward Sam, holding it up off the bed. Sam looks over at him and doesn't respond. Dean waves his hand in the air, beckoning toward himself. Sam closes the space between them and presses up against Dean's side, curling on his own. He rests his head on Dean's shoulder and chest, feels Dean's arm bend around his back as he drapes his own arm across Dean's belly.

Sam closes his eyes and exhales, a good-sized chunk of his anxiety evaporating. Dean's warm and firm next to him, chest rising and falling with his breath, heart beating not far from Sam's ear, and Sam can smell him, that scent belonging to Dean's skin that Sam has associated with home and safety since he was an infant.

Dean's head flops to his right on the pillow, chin resting against the top of Sam's forehead and breath blowing through Sam's hair as he exhales.

Sam lies awake, holding onto him, after Dean's slipped back into sleep—and he realizes that if Dean had never come back from Hell, Sam wouldn't have lived this long at all. He would've found a way to join his brother.

Better an eternity on the rack with Dean than a million years in Heaven alone.


End file.
